


Incremental

by MistressKat



Category: Timeless (TV 2016)
Genre: F/M, Fade to Black, Fake/Pretend Relationship, First Kiss, First Time, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Stolen Moments, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-18
Updated: 2017-08-18
Packaged: 2018-12-17 00:58:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11840664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistressKat/pseuds/MistressKat
Summary: "We all deserve to be happy," Wyatt says, holding her gaze.





	Incremental

**Author's Note:**

  * For [useyourtelescope (thedreamygirl)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedreamygirl/gifts).



> Dear useyourtelescope (thedreamygirl), Your request letter provided lots of good information and your likes matched mine rather well, so thank you! I should perhaps disclose that this is my first time writing in this fandom, and first time in, oh, almost two years, writing het :D CHALLENGE ACCEPTED! And hopefully delivered to some degree... 
> 
> A thousand thank yous to wendelah1 for a quick and thorough beta reading, which undoubtedly improved the final product!

It starts with a cup of coffee.   
  
Or perhaps, it starts with that moment on the walkway when Wyatt tells him he is finally ready to let Jessica go. Or maybe in 1934 when he kisses her to keep them alive, or in 1836 when she refuses to leave him behind to die.   
  
Or perhaps, more accurately, it starts that very first day when he calls her Ma'am without a shred of irony, when he's willing to follow her even when she hasn't yet earned his trust, nor he hers.   
  
Be that as it may, _something_ starts with a cup of coffee. Something different, something... more.   
  
The point is, there is definitely coffee. And a blanket.  
  
  
***  
  
  
Lucy is sitting in the break room, curled up in the corner of the sofa with a tablet and her feet tucked under her. She's reading the newest issue of the American Historical Review, engrossed in an article on Cold War covert operations, only gradually becoming aware of the tantalising scent of coffee that permeates her perfect history research zen.   
  
She blinks, looks up and is somehow unsurprised to find Wyatt sitting in the chair opposite. He's reading the Chronicle, slouching low with one leg over another. There are two take-away cups on the table between them, still steaming.   
  
"Is one of those for me?" Lucy asks. It's really for form's sake though because there's no one else around, not this late, and she's already reaching for the drink.   
  
Wyatt lowers the paper and grins. "I saw you earlier, beavering away. Thought you could use a little pick-me-up." The smile makes him ten years younger, and for a moment Lucy gets a glimpse of what Wyatt must have looked like before grief had a chance to etch its mark across his features.   
  
"How do you know I was working? I could be reading a raunchy romance novel on this for all you know." Lucy wags her tablet illustratively before putting it out of the hot liquid risk zone.   
  
Wyatt raises an eyebrow and Lucy absolutely refuses to get flustered. She wonders if she'll have to whip out her 'Women Read Erotica, Get Over It' speech, a sub-section of the much longer 'Sexism in the Media, Reflections from History' lecture she used to do as a favor for a colleague in Media Studies.   
  
Turns out Wyatt only laughs, shaking his head. "If that's the case I'd say you need better reading material. I'm pretty sure 'raunchy romance' isn't supposed to put that kind of frown on anyone's face."  
  
"I don't frown," Lucy says, and immediately feels her forehead creasing up.   
  
"Uh-huh. Drink your coffee." Wyatt returns to his paper.   
  
She wraps both hands around the cup, inhaling deeply. The first mouthful confirms her suspicions: there is definitely hazelnut syrup in there, blending deliciously with a double shot of espresso and some steamed soy milk. It's her favorite modern vice, and the only reason Wyatt knows that is because the three of them had sampled coffee during the Revolution when drinking it had more to do with a Patriotic statement than actual taste, and had, as a consequences, bonded over their caffeine preferences in the brief lull between fighting and running for their lives.   
  
Lucy is not surprised that he remembers but she is surprised that he's gone out to get it for her, seemingly just because. Surprised and pleased. "This is good," she says, smiling into her cup. "Thank you."  
  
Wyatt only hums, ostensibly distracted by the newspaper. A few minutes later, Lucy glances over and catches his expression though; the mixture of joy and pride, like he's done something good, taking her breath away.   
  
He stays with her, quietly reading and then tapping away at his laptop, while Lucy trawls through historical databases, spot-checking for anything that conflicts with her own knowledge and thus indicates potential tampering. Flynn may be out of the picture for now but not all his crew died or left, and they suspect some are out there (then), trying to complete the mission. To say nothing of Rittenhouse who have gone nowhere.   
  
It gets late but he doesn't once tell her to 'go home' and for that she is grateful. She doesn't have home anymore, at least not in the sense of a specific place. After Flynn's arrest and her mother's world shattering revelation, Lucy doesn't leave Mason Industries much. Where would she go? Not the apartment that belongs to some stranger with her face that she’s already left once, not her childhood home that is now marked by nothing but her sister's absence and her mother's betrayal.   
  
It's not like this place is neutral, or completely safe, but with Connor having switched loyalties and Agent Christopher in charge, it's better than the alternatives. Besides, this is where her team is: Wyatt and Rufus and even Jiya. They are who she feels comfortable, _comforted_ , with, and for now they are here, ergo...  
  
In the end, she falls asleep despite the coffee, words on the screen blurring into meaningless jumble, Wyatt's silent presence offering a rare feeling of safety amidst the chaos of her life.   
  
Lucy wakes up alone, curled on her side, tablet tucked under one arm like a teddy bear. Someone has turned off the main lights, leaving on only the one in the small kitchenette. The break room is cast in soft shadows. A quick glance at the clock tells her it's almost time for the morning shift, tired technicians and security personnel about to flood her makeshift office-slash-bedroom. Only when Lucy sits up does she notice the blanket draped over her; a soft, dark red fleece that definitely hasn't come from the supply closet or the wardrobe. It doesn't take a genius to work out whose it is.   
  
She really should get up, go take a shower, start her day. Instead, she sits there for a long time, the fleece wrapped around her shoulders, something warm and fierce stirring in her chest, the pit of her stomach. Something a lot like anticipation.  
  
  
***   
  
  
Lucy doesn't give the blanket back. Instead, she folds it carefully, places it at the bottom of her locker, and doesn't mention it once during the mission briefing they are all dragged into later that day. The Mothership has been spotted in Chicago in July 1944, where the Democratic National Convention is selecting its presidential candidates. All of Lucy's recent research on the Cold War becomes suddenly relevant when they spend three days trying to figure out if Emma Whitmore – talk about a surprise comeback – and her new crew are attempting to kill Truman or ensure he gets the vice-presidency nomination and becomes the mouthpiece for all that follows.   
  
Lucy has lunch with Henry Wallace because the opportunity is there and if time travel has taught her anything, it’s seizing the moments that she can. Somewhat predictably, this does not ease the long and depressingly familiar internal debate about ethics of meddling with the established timeline. She spends an hour walking back and forth in their hotel room, talking herself out of just pushing Truman down the stairs herself and saving everyone decades of trouble.   
  
“Hiroshima,” Wyatt says, looking grim. “Nagasaki.”  
  
“I know.” Lucy rubs her face, tiredly. “I _know_. But there’s nothing to say it wouldn’t happen anyway, nothing to say it wouldn’t be worse.”  
  
There’s no argument against that.  
  
Emma makes her move just before the second ballot, pulling out a gun, and Wyatt doesn't pause to check who she's aiming at before tackling her to the ground. The resulting chaos is predictably, well, chaotic, and while Whitmore and her cronies manage to escape, so do the three of them. Most importantly, no one gets shot.   
  
Back in the present day, Lucy checks the history books and discovers that apart for the mention of a failed assassination attempt, Truman's legacy is unchanged and the world goes through a painful period of pointless posturing as the two major powers do all but whip out their metaphorical dicks and a measuring tape. She thinks she should be relieved but feels nothing but hollow.   
  
The briefing is long and by the time Agent Christopher is satisfied, they are all yawning. Once out, Rufus heads straight to the control room and Jiya. Lucy watches them embrace, sees the way he presses his face to the side of her neck, seeking shelter, and aches with a mixture of joy and protectiveness, reminding herself that every stone they throw can cause ripples of time to spread out in unexpected, sometimes devastating ways. She thinks about Amy, about the memory stick full of pictures of Agent Christopher's family that sits in her locker, and about Rufus' hand curling around Jiya's as they leave. Lucy knows she will do whatever is necessary to make sure she never has to give those photos to Agent Christopher, that Rufus never has to walk out of the Lifeboat and find some stranger sitting where Jiya should be, that Amy...  
  
That Amy can live.  
  
"He looks happy."   
  
Lucy turns around to find Wyatt leaning on the railing next to her, his eyes on the control room floor below, following Rufus and Jiya as they head out.   
  
"He deserves it," she says firmly, her friend's happiness filling some of the aching empty space Amy has left inside her.  
  
Wyatt nods but doesn't say anything else for long minutes. Their position is so similar to when he'd told her he wasn't ready to say goodbye, that Lucy half expects some awkwardness but it never comes. Instead, they stand companionably, shoulders brushing, watching the bustle of people on the floor below.   
  
"We all do," Wyatt finally murmurs.  
  
His voice is low enough that Lucy isn't entirely sure whether she was meant to hear it or not but she asks anyway. "What's that?"  
  
Wyatt turns fully to face her and Lucy mirrors the position. They are close enough to touch and it's no new revelation to realise that she wants to.   
  
"We all deserve to be happy," he says, holding her gaze.   
  
What is she supposed to say to that? There's a part of her that wants to argue, because it sounds selfish when Amy is still missing from the history books and when Rittenhouse is still bent on rewriting them. But really, Lucy knows that to say 'you deserve it but I can't because...' is the height of hypocrisy.   
  
In the end she just nods. Wyatt seems satisfied with that, wishing her good night before taking his leave.   
  
  
***   
  
  
The whole exchange makes her think. Not just about the nature of happiness – and wouldn't that make her old philosophy professor laugh – but also about practical things like sleeping, and more precisely, where to do it.   
  
"Does Wyatt have rooms here?" Lucy feels awkward asking it, and Agent Christopher's raised eyebrow doesn't help. "I mean, I know most people go home, but he's here on command and soldiers usually sleep in barracks and I just thought..."  
  
"You're concerned we're sending him to some soulless army base each night?" Agent Christopher supplies.  
  
Lucy nods, because yeah, she _is_ concerned, doesn't like the idea of Wyatt bedding down in some institutional dormitory, surrounded by people he doesn't know, and definitely won't trust. What kind of rest is that?  
  
Agent Christopher smiles. She's amused, but it's not mocking. "A good leader worries about her people," she says, taking a sip of her green tea.   
  
They are sharing one of the tables in the break room. While Lucy hasn't quite forgiven her for going behind her back to arrest Flynn and she is still waging a campaign to save his family, she does respect her despite everything.   
  
Maybe because of it.   
  
She suppresses the urge to shrug off the implication, instead sitting up straighter and pulling her shoulders back. Leadership was never something she gave much thought to and when she did, it had conjured up images of old power hungry men playing their games with rules designed to keep everyone else out. People like her former Dean at the university. People like Rittenhouse.  
  
Turns out, real leadership has little do with wielding power or playing games, and a lot to do with trust. "So," Lucy prompts, wrapping cold fingers around her coffee mug, "Wyatt?"  
  
"Mason Industries offers sleeping quarters for all its employees," Agent Christopher explains, "Quite a few use them on an ad hoc basis – apparently overtime is more of a norm than an exception – but most, like Mr Carlin, have their own places."  
  
"Wyatt remains on the US Army payroll, though," Lucy interrupts, frowning.   
  
"Absolutely. But do you think we want someone with classified information driving up and down forty miles a day just to sleep in an Army facility?”  
  
"Wyatt’s not a security risk!” Lucy protests hotly.  
  
“Of course not.” Agent Christopher looks like she would roll her eyes if such a thing wasn’t beneath her. “He’s Delta Force. We’re frankly more concerned about you.”  
  
“What? I…”  
  
"The point is,” she interrupts smoothly, “that Master Sergeant Logan was offered quarters here and he accepted them. I believe his sleeping arrangements haven't changed since the first mission." It's not quite a question but there is a slight suggestion there that makes Lucy both bristle and flush.   
  
This too seems to amuse Agent Christopher, but she chooses not to comment. "They're not luxury rooms, but perfectly comfortable." She regards Lucy in silence for a while. "Better than the break room sofa at least," she adds finally, casting a meaningful glance at the piece of furniture in question.   
  
Okay, so maybe Lucy had another motive for asking besides Wyatt's welfare. "Any chance of--?"  
  
"You can get a key to a free room from Hardison on level three," Agent Christopher says, downing her tea and getting up. "I'm heading home."  
  
Lucy nods, raising her mug in brief thanks. "Say hi to Michelle and the kids."   
  
"I will." Agent Christopher smiles, her whole face softening briefly at the thought of going home to her family. "Goodnight."   
  
"Night." Lucy watches her leave, sipping at her now lukewarm coffee slowly as she considers her options: the flat with photos she doesn’t remember posing for, the sofa, or Mason Industries employee quarters. Well, she guesses she could also get a hotel room but that ranks somewhere between her apartment and the sofa so...  
  
The decision made, she tips rest of the coffee in the sink and goes to find Hardison-with-the-keys.   
  
  
***  
  
  
Agent Christopher was right, the room definitely is no Hilton. Still, it is much more comfortable than what Lucy imagines standard barracks might be. The chair by the desk is a proper office one, the shower in the en-suite has better water pressure than the one at her apartment, and the bed is somewhere between a single and a double and sports a mattress that definitely didn’t come from the cheapest end of the catalogue. Best of all, there are no reminders here of a life that suddenly isn’t quite hers.   
  
Lucy empties her locker, spreading her meagre belongings on the shelves and the desk, before falling into bed. There aren’t too many of these rooms, hers is a number eight and she only counted up to twenty on the way over, which means that Wyatt is probably sleeping somewhere reasonably close by. The thought makes her smile, something restless settling inside.  
  
  
***   
  
  
It also means that Lucy is feeling reasonably well rested the next day when they step out of the Lifeboat into the humid heat at the outskirts of Bombay. This isn’t the first time Lucy sets foot to India but India in 2009 when she and Amy had backpacked through on their six-month trek of Asia and India in 1959 are not the same.   
  
The core of things hasn’t changed; the people, the colors, the smell of spices, these things remain familiar, winding around her like old friends. But in 1959 the country is only twelve years out of British rule, and still recovering from the painful and rushed through partition into Hindu majority India and Muslim Pakistan. Lucy imagines she can see the scars of it on people’s faces, the gaps where neighbours and friends once were.  
  
She is better prepared than the others for the sensory overload that greets them when they enter the city. Rufus stops in his tracks, eyes wide and mouth opening in a silent ‘wow’. Wyatt turns in a slow circle in the middle of the street, gaze flitting from vendors to buildings to the rolling crowd that splits around him like a loud, multicolored river. Lucy half expects him to be anxious – this is, after all, an ideal hiding ground for all manner of threats – but instead she is greeted by that infectious little boy grin, the one that makes it impossible not the smile in return.   
  
“Of all our trips,” Wyatt says, spreading his arms wide and almost knocking off an old woman’s basket of mangoes in the process, “I’ve never wanted to play tourist as much as I do now.”  
  
“Are you sure we shouldn’t bring anything back with us?” Rufus asks, eyeing the display of beautiful jewellery, spread over a cloth on the ground.   
  
The seller, sensing easy prey, is already quoting prices in English and what Lucy assumes is an African language of some kind, perhaps Swahili or Yoruba. Students and travellers from Africa are not uncommon in India in 1950s and many come from other former (or soon to be) Commonwealth countries like Tanzania, Kenya, or Nigeria.   
  
“You know what?” Lucy makes the decision then and there to break that particular rule. “I think that one would look lovely on Jiya.” She points at an intricately carved jade pendant in the shape of a serpent.   
  
Lucy watches with amusement as Rufus and the vendor haggle over the price, Rufus showing unexpected skill in bargaining and getting the necklace for two thirds of the original quote.  
  
“What happened to the rules?” Wyatt asks softly as they move on. He’s reined in his glee at their surroundings and is scanning the crowds with professional alertness once more.   
  
“We’re keeping the ones that matter,” Lucy answers. Before Wyatt has a chance to ask, she adds: “And no, I’m not sure which ones they are yet.”  
  
  
***   
  
  
Rufus is the one taking the lead this time. He gets a little wild around the eyes at the prospect and Lucy can hardly blame him. This is, after all, Martin Luther King Jr. in the midst of his tour of India, following in the footsteps of Mahatma Gandhi.    
  
“Change here is a change to everything!” Rufus hisses under his breath as they insinuate themselves on the edges of King’s retinue.   
  
“We won’t let it happen,” Lucy promises, squeezing Rufus’ hand tightly. They have no idea what Whitmore is planning and have yet to catch a sight of her, but it can’t be anything good. King dying now, almost a decade before his time, or returning without the deepened inspiration of nonviolent resistance he found in India, would inexorably change the nature of the Civil Rights Movement.  
  
“What do I even say?” Rufus sounds equal parts nervous and excited and Lucy admits to a certain amount of flutters at the bottom of her own stomach.  
  
“As little as possible,” Wyatt whispers just as King turns to them, smiling and shaking hands.   
  
In the end, their cover story goes without a hitch, barring a few raised eyebrows. Rufus is pretending to be one of the young Africans studying in India – neatly bypassing details like which university and exactly which country he’s from, and using Wyatt and Lucy as explanation to his distinctly American English accent.   
  
The two of them are playing the part of married missionaries, the modest gold ring feeling odd on Lucy’s finger but looking like it belongs on Wyatt’s.   
  
“Mr and Mrs Johnson,” Rufus introduces them.   
  
“An honor to meet you,” Wyatt says, shaking King’s hand. “God bless your efforts.”  
  
He looks at them sharply. “And do you believe God blessed your efforts, taking His word to the ‘heathens of the Dark Continent’?” That King is quoting a phrase from the popular view of mission work is obvious, that he finds it offensive doubly so.   
  
Lucy exhales, biting down on the urge to protest. No matter how progressive, a person that she’s pretending to be wouldn’t find much controversy in the description. “We go where God sends us,” she demurs.   
  
“And His ways are mysterious indeed,” King comments drily. He holds her gaze for a moment, before moving on to the next group of eagerly awaiting people.   
  
  
***   
  
  
King and his party spend three days in Bombay and the three of them manage to stay close-by, tagging along to meetings, lectures and dinners. Everywhere they go, Wyatt behaves like a romance novel version of an attentive partner. He opens doors, pulls chairs, fetches drinks and keeps a near constant hand hovering – and sometimes touching down – at the small of Lucy’s back. The warmth of it seeps under her skin even though layers of clothing and the modest inches of air between them, distracting and reassuring in equal measure.  
  
She is somewhere between irritated and charmed, itching to snap that she can sit down without assistance, thank you very much, but conscious of the period manners and their cover. Plus, there’s something about the quickly hidden little smiles that keep appearing that suggests that Wyatt is actually enjoying himself, somehow deeply pleased to be able to attend to her – even if largely imagined – needs.   
  
“You know,” she says the second evening as they retire for the night. “Female missionaries were hardly the shrinking violet types. They would have had to roll up their sleeves and get stuck in all sorts of physical labor. Pretty sure Mrs Johnson would be used to opening her own doors.”  
  
They have managed to get rooms at the same hotel as the Kings and ‘Mr and Mrs Johnson’ are obviously in a double of their own, while Rufus has a single down the hall. Not that it matters much, considering that they are all taking turns to keep watch.   
  
Wyatt turns to look at her from where he’s standing by the window, surveying the street below. “It’s not… I don’t think you, _she_ can’t. Couldn’t.” He shrugs, linen shirt visibly sticking to his shoulders.   
  
Lucy too is uncomfortably hot in her dress, longing for the light saris of the locals but knowing it would stick out too much for a Westerner to wear one in this time. “What then?” she asks, the words more snappish than she intended, the heat and humidity and the prolonged mission making her temper shorter than usual.   
  
“I’m your…” Wyatt looks away, turns back to the window. “I’m supposed to be your husband,” he finishes, like it explains everything.   
  
And perhaps, for him, it does. There’s something about the way he says it, the way he emphasises the ‘your’. _Your_ husband. Lucy thinks that if he’d said it the other way around, ‘you’re supposed to be my wife’, she would have argued. But this…  
  
She watches him silently across the room; the tension in his back, palpable, despite the textbook parade rest he’s standing at, the way the shirt clings to his skin, fabric dark with sweat, his hair curling ever so slightly at the nape, too long between haircuts and the air too humid for anything resembling military neatness. It makes sense, she thinks, in a way. Wyatt is a soldier. Soldiers serve. Every fight, every minute of standing guard, every step into the way of an incoming bullet, is an act of service.   
  
It’s not only that here of course, between them. Wyatt doesn’t trust his country, not like he used to, not after all they’ve learned, but he serves it nonetheless. Wyatt trusts Lucy, that she knows, and he…  
  
“Rufus has the first watch,” she says, unbuttoning her dress and kicking off her shoes. “Come to bed.”   
  
She lies down on top of the covers, curled on her side in nothing but a long, pale blue slip. It’s too hot for modesty, far too late to pretend she should maintain some anyway.   
  
He glances over, gaze sliding over her prone form, and Lucy can almost hear the dry click of his throat as he swallows. “I should stay up,” he says, looks at the window. Then the door. “Just in case.”  
  
“Wyatt.” This time she makes it an order, not a suggestion. “Come to bed.”  
  
He comes.  
  
Lucy watches Wyatt tug off his shirt, letting it drop by the bed. He too toes off his shoes, but leaves his trousers on, before lying down on his back.   
  
This isn’t the first time they have played a couple, down to sharing a bed, and there’s a certain almost familiarity in the way his weight settles next to hers.  
  
He relaxes in increments, tension leaching out little by little with each exhale. Lucy matches their breathing, watching the way Wyatt’s hand slowly inches across the space between them until his fingers are just brushing the hem of her slip. He keeps his eyes on the ceiling, doesn’t attempt to touch her skin, only curling his fingers into the thin fabric.   
  
Lucy thinks about touching him, about pressing her face to the side of his neck, running one careful nail tip from the notch of his sternum down to the low waistband of his trousers. She thinks about rolling over, on top of him, about what her name would taste like on his lips.  
  
“Sleep,” she says instead, wrapping her hand around his wrist.   
  
With a sigh, Wyatt closes his eyes.   
  
They sleep.   
  
  
***  
  
  
Lucy wakes to a gun a pointed at her face. Only Wyatt’s arm clamping like a steel band around her middle stops the instinctive lurch sideways, out of the way, the scream dying in her throat.   
  
Emma’s shushing gesture of a delicate finger over her lips certainly does nothing to calm her down.   
  
“If she wanted to kill us, we’d be dead already,” Wyatt says, voice clipped with tension. He doesn’t let go of her, simply manoeuvres them on the bed until his body is between Lucy’s and the barrel of the gun.   
  
“Master Sergeant Logan is right.” Emma quirks an eyebrow like she’s somehow surprised by that. “I’m not here to harm you. In fact, I’m here to tell you that I’ve already killed who I came to kill, and now I’m going home. Thought you’d appreciate knowing you can do the same. Unless…” Her eyes flick meaningfully over the cosy room and their half-dressed state. “You’d prefer to extend your Indian honeymoon?”  
  
Lucy would get indignant if she wasn’t so worried about Emma’s casual admission of murder and, well, if there wasn’t a grain of truth to her insinuations.   
  
“What did you do to King?” Wyatt growls just as Lucy gasps “Rufus?” cold dread flooding her.   
  
Emma barks a laugh. “You are so far off the mark it’s almost funny.” She backs toward the door, keeping the gun trained on them the whole way. “Later,” she says and then cocks her head to the side as if considering. “Or earlier, depends on how you look at it.” With a grin she ducks out.   
  
Wyatt is up in a flash, grabbing his own weapon from the bedside table and chasing after Whitmore.   
  
Lucy runs the opposite direction, down the corridor and up two flights of stairs to where the Kings are staying. She comes barrelling around the corner, bare feet slapping against floorboards, and collides straight into…  
  
“Rufus!”   
  
“Ow! What…?”  
  
She throws her arms around him in sheer relief. “You’re alive!”  
  
He hugs her back carefully. “Any reason I shouldn’t be?”  
  
“Emma,” she says grimly, pulling back and looking over Rufus’ shoulder at the Kings’ room door that seems remarkably undisturbed. “Are they…?”  
  
“No one’s been in or out since I got here,” Rufus says. He sets his face and walks over, knocking on the door firmly. “Reverend and Mrs King?” he calls, “Everything okay?”  
  
There’s no reply and Rufus is just about to knock again when Wyatt comes skidding in. “No sight of her,” he reports. “Rufus, thank god.” The relief on his face at seeing their teammate tells Lucy that he was expecting an altogether bloodier scene.   
  
“Yeah, I’m fine,” Rufus says. “Now would someone please tell me what the hell is going on here?”  
  
“I’d quite like to know that too,” comes a fourth voice, and they all turn around to find King standing in his doorway, arms crossed and a frown on his face as he takes in the scene in front of him.   
  
Lucy is acutely aware of her and Wyatt’s state of undress, and wraps her arms around herself in a vain attempt to cover up.  
  
“Uh, sorry to barge in like this, Reverend.” Rufus steps forward, attempting to distract King from the sight of Wyatt hastily stuffing a gun down the back of his trousers. “We thought we saw an intruder.”   
  
“What’s going on?” Mrs King appears behind her husband, an equal look of confusion at her face. “Has something happened?”  
  
“But we can now see that you are both okay. We must have been mistaken,” Rufus continues smoothly. “A thousand apologies for disturbing you.” He backs away, shooing Lucy and Wyatt ahead of him.   
  
“Yeah, sorry,” Wyatt says, attempting a reassuring smile that falls a few miles off the mark. “Nothing to worry about.”  
  
Lucy contends herself with an apologetic hand-wave before making a tactical retreat down the stairs with the others.   
  
By silent agreement they convene back in Lucy and Wyatt’s room. While pulling on clothes, the two of them take turns to recount their recent encounter with Whitmore. Rufus sits quietly, hands dangling between his knees as he listens.   
  
“So the ten thousand dollar question is…” he says eventually, mouth twisted unhappily, “Just who _did_ she kill if not King?”  
  
  
***   
  
  
It takes them until the following day to find out. No one in King’s retinue has so much as a stubbed toe and subtle questioning about suspicious strangers amasses nothing but headshakes and amused looks. After all, King’s party are the visitors here; strangers abound.   
  
It’s not until the evening that a commotion draws them to the hotel lobby, flooded with state police. The manager is wringing his hands, speaking in rapid Marathi, while next to him a distraught housekeeper is being questioned by officers.   
  
It takes Wyatt a while to locate someone willing to exchange information for money, but finally they have the bare bones of the story: a guest has been found dead in his bed, a bullet hole through the head, and now it appears his passport information is incorrect as the British Embassy is vehemently denying the existence of anyone of the name the guest had provided. It’s a mess, and the presence of the police is doing little to reassure the other guests.   
  
“Rittenhouse?” Lucy asks under her breath. They are sitting in the corner of the dining room, trying to keep an eye on the comings and goings of the police and various other officials, and failing spectacularly.  
  
“Got to be.” Rufus is clutching a delicate glass of tea with such force Lucy fears it will break. “It makes no sense though.”  
  
Wyatt says nothing but he looks deeply troubled and frustrated by the latest development. Lucy can understand because she feels it too; like they’ve wasted their time – pun entirely intended – and accomplished nothing. Still, it’s her job as a leader to ensure that her team doesn’t get mired down in the setbacks.   
  
“Well, we found out that Emma’s agenda doesn’t seem to entirely align with the Rittenhouse,” Lucy says. “That’s more than we knew yesterday.”   
  
“So she’s neither friend nor foe,” Rufus summarises.  
  
Wyatt slumps back in his chair, arms crossed. “I don’t like it.”  
  
“Me neither,” Lucy says. “But I like it more than if she was out and out trying to kill us.”  
  
Wyatt’s face darkens and he looks down as if ashamed. Lucy know he blames himself for Emma getting a jump on them last night, which is supremely unfair when it had been her who’d insisted he sleep rather than keep watch.   
  
She’ll tell him that at the earliest opportunity but for now she settles for placing a hand on his knee under the table. There’s nothing suggestive about it, she simply thinks he could do with something grounding. They both could.   
  
“It’s alright.” She shrugs, trying to smile reassuringly. “So this wasn’t the kind of heroic rescue mission we imagined but… King’s alive. And so are we.” She shakes Wyatt’s knee a little for emphasis, startling when he drops a hand to cover hers and squeezes.  
  
“I’ll drink to that!” Rufus lifts his glass, downing the rest of the tea in one go and grimacing at the sweetness of it.  
  
The Kings are moving on today, heading to the next step of their tour. Lucy, Wyatt and Rufus have no reason to stick around. They wait until it’s dark before leaving, heading out of the city and toward the Lifeboat left hidden in the outskirts. The night is full of cooking smells and late traffic, and everywhere underneath the shrilling sound of cicadas.   
  
And somehow, Lucy feels more at home here – half a world, and half a century away – than she does in the present day US. Guess what they say is right and home is not a place – nor, it seems, a time – but the people you’re with.  
  
  
***   
  
  
The following week is quiet. There is no activity detected for the Mothership and even Agent Christopher can debrief them only so many times before there is no possible new angle to pick apart. Rufus and Jiya are elbow deep in code, taking the opportunity to run diagnostics and update some of the Lifeboat’s operating systems to at least something resembling the Mothership’s capacity.   
  
Wyatt disappears back to his base for a few days. Lucy gets the impression someone in the Delta Force is yanking their chain and Agent Christopher and Mason are letting them for the sake of maintaining the illusion of interagency co-operation. She would feel indignant on Wyatt’s behalf, for being used like a pawn in a game, if he didn’t actually look cheerful about the prospect of getting away for a bit.    
  
Lucy takes his example and goes for a series of long walks. The first couple of times she keeps checking her phone, expecting to be called back in another timeline related emergency, but no urgent message comes.   
  
Lucy walks through streets and parks, through the university campus, past the familiar rows of books in the library’s history section, breathing in the smell of paper and ink and destinies she thought fixed but learned were anything but.   
  
Outside, the weather is sharp and invigorating. Despite Lucy jumping from one point in time to the next, the seasons still turn in the order they always have. Autumn is slowly sliding toward winter and in the early mornings the air has the kind of crisp to it that stings a little with each inhale, but in a good way, like a love bite.  
  
Unexpectedly, she finds something like peace on those walks, a contentment that is as far removed from complacency as possible. She knows the war they are waging now, at least the general shape of it, and she’s determined to keep fighting.  
  
That’s not all she finds either.   
  
The night after Wyatt’s departure to make nice with his old chain of command, Lucy goes to grab her gym bag from her locker. In addition to staff quarters, Mason Industries offers first rate fitness facilities for its employees. The things money can buy… She shakes her head, bemused, but not above taking full advantage.   
  
An hour on the treadmill does wonders to clear the mind. She could’ve ran outside, even prefers it most days, but tonight she just wanted to lose herself in the movement and some music – Tchaikovsky works surprisingly well for running – so the gym is a safer option than the busy streets.    
  
She’s about to head to the showers adjacent to the dressing rooms but then remembers that she has a perfectly serviceable, not to mention private, bathroom of her own now. Back in her new room, Lucy upends the gym bag on the bed and there, amidst the towel and a half-empty bottle of shampoo, is something she doesn’t recognise.   
  
The fabric is beautiful; a long swathe of silk in royal purple and blue so deep it’s almost black. But it’s what’s wrapped inside it that takes her breath away. A pair of jade earrings are nestled in the folds of the fabric, oval in shape and delicately carved with trees and flowers.  
  
Lucy sits on the edge of her bed for a long time, running a careful finger over the patterns, the jade smooth and cool against her skin. She smiles to herself, soft and secret, almost able to hear the cicadas again, the taste of coriander and lemongrass lingering at the back of her throat. Wyatt must have slipped away at some point for the earrings, perhaps visiting the same seller Rufus got Jiya’s necklace from, perhaps someone else at the market.   
  
It’s a gift without any ulterior motive, of that Lucy is sure, given only because he’d wanted to, because it might make her happy. She could never wear them, never once mention them, and during the next mission Wyatt would still lie next to her if she asked, would still step in front of a bullet without a second thought.   
  
Lucy hangs the earrings on her bedside lamp, draping the colourful piece of silk over the headboard and stroking a hand over the fleece blanket that still lives at the foot of the bed. These are things, lovely things, but it is the man giving them who really matters.  
  
And that is the most unexpected gift of all. Lucy thinks it’s time for Wyatt to know that too.   
  
  
***   
  
  
Wyatt returns to Mason Industries a few days later, and amazingly enough they don’t have to rush straight to the Lifeboat and another temporal emergency. Lucy doesn’t even have to go looking for him; Wyatt seeks her out as soon as he’s back.  
  
“Hey,” he says, running a hand over wind tussled hair and grinning at her in an open, uncomplicated way that makes her want to lick the happiness straight out of his mouth. “Thought I’d come to let you know I was back, see if you’d tangled up any timelines in my absence.”  
  
Despite the casual words, this is Wyatt reporting for duty with his commanding officer. Except words like ‘duty’ and ‘team leader’, while true, are also utterly inadequate to describe what’s going on here.   
  
“Would I do that?” Lucy asks and impulsively hugs him, brief but tight. “It’s good to have you back,” she says, because it is, and there’s no reason not to let him know. “Let’s go get lunch and you can tell me all about your holiday with the Delta Force boys.”  
  
Wyatt looks so surprised and pleased by the hug that Lucy resolves to do it as much as she can get away with. He looks even more pleased when she slips her arm through his and steers them right out of Mason Industries and into one of the nearby cafes for the promised lunch, walking tall all the way. With a jolt that is almost physical in its intensity, she realises that he is _proud_ to be seen with her.   
  
If she’d thought she’d found a resolve to keep fighting on her solitary walks, then it doubles right there and then. With someone like Wyatt having all this faith in her, how could she fail?  
  
Lucy is tested on that sooner than she likes. Rufus calls them before they’re halfway through dessert (apple pie for him, cheesecake for her). Emma and the Mothership are on the move again, and so they need to be too.

  
  
***  
  
  
Jamestown in 1610 is decidedly less pleasant than their trip to India had been. People are starving, the ones still alive and willing to resort to… alternative protein sources. There are some parts of the history best learned through books rather than eyewitness experience, Lucy thinks, cannibalism being right at the top of the list.   
  
No amount of period clothing is going to disguise their healthy and well-fed state so the three of them end up operating mostly unseen. The Day of Providence is around the corner, and Lucy can only imagine that Emma is… Well. She doesn’t even know if the end goal is to ensure the arrival of the relief fleet or to stop it, but something is definitely going on.   
  
The fight that follows is less Pirates of the Caribbean and more a bloody mayhem of unwashed men, both Lucy and Emma standing out like sore thumbs and conducting a highly charged debate about the integrity of the timeline, no matter the consequences, while the chaos reigns around them. She’s still mid argument when Wyatt judges it time to exit stage left, seizes her around the middle and throws them both overboard.   
  
Rufus follows seconds later, muttering about useless high school swimming lessons as they struggle to the shore. The fleet makes it to the harbour and the three of them make it to the Lifeboat, soaking wet and miserable.   
  
“This is before Rittenhouse was even imagined,” Rufus complains, trying to operate the controls with shaking hands.   
  
“I guess that was the point.” Lucy bites her shattering teeth together and lets Wyatt strap her in. “Destroy the cradle so to speak.”  
  
“Might have been the ethical thing to do,” Wyatt says and Lucy can’t fully disagree, thinking of the first slave ship arriving in less than a decade and all that would follow.  
  
  
***    
  
  
Back at the Mason Industries they debrief, although only after a shower and change of clothes, not to mention a raft of vaccinations, because Agent Christopher is feeling generous.   
  
Afterwards, Lucy is tired enough to fall straight to bed and god, it is tempting. But there’s no guarantee that the morning won’t bring another mission, no guarantee that tomorrow they won’t drown.   
  
So she gets up, on legs that ache from swimming against the current, and grabs the fleece blanket from the end of her bed.   
  
Wyatt opens his door after the second knock, almost as if he’d been waiting for her, except she can see that the surprise on his face is genuine.   
  
“Lucy,” he says and immediately steps back, gesturing for her to enter. “Come in.”  
  
She does, casting a curious look around, eyes taking in the books, the few knick-knacks on the shelves, the jacket slung over the chair.   
  
Wyatt says nothing, just stands there and lets her look, waiting her out. Eventually, his gaze settles on the bundled up blanket under her arm and she can see the sudden tightening around the mouth, the way his expression shutters.   
  
“Wyatt…”  
  
“Are you giving it back?” he interrupts, arms crossed as if he’s trying to make it impossible for Lucy to hand him anything.   
  
She regards him silently for a few seconds, a smile spreading over her face, riding the wave of affection swelling deep inside her chest. “No,” she says, “I don’t think I am.” She clutches the fleece tightly, possessively. “I just… I wanted to say thank you. For this. And the earrings.” Her hand goes to her ears instinctively but of course she’s not wearing them now. “They’re beautiful.”  
  
“I…” Wyatt clears his throat, shoves his hands into his pockets and looks somewhere over Lucy’s left shoulder. “You’re welcome.”  
  
He’s honest to god _bashful_ and Lucy can’t help the little noise of pleasure she makes, charmed and so, so very _certain_ of this. Of them.  
  
It makes Wyatt look up, eyes suddenly dark. "Is there… Is there anything else you want?" he asks. It's not said rudely like a dismissal, and neither is it suggestive or flirtatious. Wyatt genuinely wants to know if there is anything else Lucy wants, anything that would be his to give, and that makes her breath catch, her spine straighten and the power of it pools like hot honey in her gut, sweet and precious.   
  
“Yes,” she says, putting the fleece blanket on Wyatt’s bed. They might want it later. “Yes, there is.”  
  
She sees the exact moment Wyatt gets it, the realisation dawning like a new century in the scant seconds between Lucy stepping closer and threading her fingers into the short hairs at the back of his neck.   
  
“Then take it,” he whispers against her lips. “ _Please_.”  
  
The first kiss is all slow heat, Wyatt’s hands skating over her shoulders and back, tightening in surprise when Lucy grazes teeth over his bottom lip, swallowing the sound he makes. The second is even better, hungrier, her fingers seeking skin and pulling at his shirt, trailing over ribs, the jut of his hips fitting her palms like they were made for it.  
  
By the third, Wyatt’s back hits the mattress and Lucy stops counting.   
  
  
***   
  
  
She wakes up when Wyatt leaves the bed, only registering the knocking when he’s halfway across the room already, hastily pulling on pyjama pants.  
  
It’s Rufus. She can hear him, even though Wyatt only opens the door to a crack.   
  
“Whitmore,” he says glumly. “No rest for the wicked. And by that I mean her, not us.”  
  
“Alright,” Wyatt says, “I’ll be there.”  
  
“Hey, do you know where Lucy is? She’s not in her quarters and I can’t get her on the phone.”  
  
“I…”  
  
She watches the way his bare shoulders tense, his body angled in the doorway so as to block the view to the room. And really, that won’t do. If he thinks for one moment that Lucy wants to keep this a secret then he has another thing coming.   
  
“Morning, Rufus!” she calls, smirking at the stunned silence that follows.   
  
Wyatt turns to look at her, surprise and pleasure plain on his face, and she just smiles back.   
  
“Morning, Lucy!” Rufus calls back after a while, and she can hear the shit-eating grin in his voice. “I take it you do know where Lucy is then?” he says teasingly to Wyatt.  
  
“Yeah.” Wyatt clears his throat, but his shoulders are squared, chin up. “I do.”  
  
“That’s… good. That’s good, man.” Rufus’ voice has gone from amused to warm, and he claps a hand on Wyatt’s arm before saying: “I’ll see you both in a bit, yeah?” and taking his leave.  
  
Wyatt closes the door and turns to look at Lucy. “Well. That was…”  
  
“Only a matter of time,” she finishes, getting up. She’s naked and makes no effort to clutch a sheet around her, simply walking up to Wyatt and pressing close for a good morning kiss.   
  
“Relax,” she admonishes gently. “This is _my team_.” And that comes out fierce and determined, because they are _hers_ ; Wyatt, Rufus and Jiya, maybe even Agent Christopher and Connor Mason, whether they like it or not. No one is going to touch any them if she can help it.  
  
He seems to get it, sighing softly as he slumps against her. There’s a lingering kiss to her neck that makes her shiver, and a mumbled question she can’t quite make out.  
  
“What?” Lucy asks, tugging his head off her shoulder gently with a hand in his hair.   
  
“I said: does that mean I should get dressed and ready to save the world again?” Wyatt’s gaze keeps dropping downward from her face and he doesn’t seem particularly enthusiastic about _anyone_ getting dressed anytime soon.   
  
“I’m afraid so. But we are going to make time,” she promises.  
  
“For what? Because I’ve got some ideas…” He’s teasing, fingers starting to tiptoe along the same path his eyes keep travelling, leaving goose bumps in their wake.  
  
Lucy pinches his side in retaliation, just hard enough to make him yelp and laugh.  
  
“For everything,” she says and means ‘for us’. “But,” she grins, taking hold of Wyatt’s wandering hands and dragging him toward the bathroom, delighting in the joy on his face, the same one she knows is reflected on hers, “I thought we might start with a shower.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Historical disclaimer: I did as much research as I had time for, have kept things vague when I wasn’t sure and claim a certain amount of artistic licence (e.g. I know King visited Bombay but have no idea how long he actually spent there). However, please tell me if I got something glaringly wrong!


End file.
